fire and earth and what lies inbetween
by cloudosaurus
Summary: Maybe they just aren't meant for each other. Even the love they make is that of a lush forest being consumed by a raging wildfire. But then again, perhaps they are. Because Katsuki momentarily appeases his bottomless hunger, and from the ashes, Izuku grows back stronger. [BakuDeku. Introspective.]


On the surface, they are still and clear like a shallow pond borne from torrential springtime rain, existing unassumingly, free of ripples, sparkling in the warm rays of the gentle sun that smiles once the clouds melt away.

The public loves them. The media tries and tries and fails to find a flaw with them. Their former classmates are awed by them. By the chaste kisses they press to each other's cheeks, the low, murmured conversations they share, barely a breath away, hands held discreetly but tightly, by the brief but lingering touches – on a bare forearm, perhaps a shoulder, maybe a hip.

At intentional or coincidental meetings – class reunions or pro-hero conferences, no-one dares to say it, but it shows in their eyes when Katsuki's frown disappears instead of deepening at Izuku's approach; when Izuku's smile widens instead of fading as Katsuki leans dangerously close, filling up his personal space. Their former classmates, now colleagues, share unconcealed glances and raised eyebrows, and then grin.

Once, unexpectedly later rather than sooner considering their turbulent history, the media catches hold of their childhood dynamic.

_What is it like to be in a relationship with someone you used to get bullied by? Is Ground Zero coercing you to be his partner?_ _Ground Zero, what is your defense? _They surround the pair on a hot summer day like a swarm of persistent flies, right outside the steps of the small apartment that they share in the outskirts of the city, shameless. But both of them remain unfazed. They've been expecting this, really. They're just surprised it took so long.

Deku is charming where Ground Zero, still, is grating. Most of the questions are directed at him, anyway, so he steps forward and speaks. The reporters drink up Deku's sweet words and shy smiles, his tender glances at Ground Zero who stands like a rock by his side. _It was just misplaced affection_, Deku says. And maybe some of the reporters don't buy that, but they're distracted. By how Ground Zero closes the distance between the two pro-heroes' bodies, wrapping an arm snugly around Deku's waist before glaring at the cameras. _He's mine_, his eyes seem to say. _Fuck off_.

The next morning, instead of airing a discussion about their past, news anchors discuss whether it is appropriate for the nation's top heroes to be so unapologetically affectionate in public. They replay the moment Ground Zero embraces Deku, never-before-revealed candid photos captured of the two on incognito dates, and even extend the passing of judgement to other top-ten heroes. Kaminari calls the couple, wailing about having to explain a picture of himself in front of a questionable host club. Izuku tries to soothe him, but Katsuki hangs up halfway.

Izuku and Katsuki watch the airing over untouched cups of tea as they sit on their couch, knees brushing. When the segment is finally over, Katsuki rolls his eyes, Izuku giggles in relief, and then they share sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

To the prying eyes of the world, they are perfectly amiable, an ideal couple. And yet. Even five years after graduating, tied top-of-their-class at UA, Ground Zero and Deku switch between rankings #1 and #2 constantly, like the ceaseless cycle of tides. Now, instead of betting on who's going to remain number one, pro-hero fanatics bet on how long it will be until Deku outdoes Ground Zero, or Ground Zero outshines Deku.

And still. Each speaks with undeniable conviction, insisting that _he_ will be the one who emerges victorious, eternally the better hero. Deku's eyes lose their gentle mirth and become firm with rock-solid determination; Ground Zero's eyes burn bright, reignited with fiery passion.

A twisted sense of childhood camaraderie may have brought them together, and a rivalry built on the unshakable foundations of begrudging respect might have kept them together. Yet it is neither of these that binds them to each other.

No, what bind them irrevocably together are the slimy, slithering tendrils of hate. They're always there, buried underneath soft kisses to foreheads, calloused fingers entwined, long nights spent fretting at a hospital bedside. They appear at the surface sometimes, behind closed doors and soundproofed walls, when Izuku simpers, long eyelashes fluttering, cheeks dimpling, voice dripping like honey as he murmurs calculated taunts into the shell of Katsuki's ear; when Katsuki rages, fists clenched, body taut, shouting so that it's his spit that kisses Izuku instead of his lips.

They're up in each other's faces, at each other's throats, bent forward, foreheads touching. But their expression of frustration has matured along with their minds and bodies. It's been a long while since they battled it out with their quirks. There's hardly anything new – anything satisfying in that, the freshness and excitement worn off, discarded alongside the naïveté of their high school days; turned stale by the demands of their full-time jobs.

Now, hands at throats become hands at hips, squeezing the plump swell of an ass with painful force, or thrust beneath a waistband to wrap tightly around the base of a half-erect cock. They trail down a chest to tug hard at a peaked nipple, pinching, twisting, until moans turn into whines and whimpers. Until curses spat become curses grunted or groaned, broken inbetween shaky breaths and gasps for air.

It is the dark, swirling current of their complexes – ever-oscillating between inferiority and superiority in a whirlpool of self-doubt – that intertwines their souls, threading them together like stitches of steel. Persistent, it throbs like an aching wound, a scab begging to be itched deep within the surface of their scarred skins. It stings when Izuku cooks them a candlelit dinner, screams when Katsuki pulls Izuku onto his lap, fondling him between his powerful thighs as he peppers kisses up the side of his jaw. They lie curled into one another on the couch, sharing heats and provocative touches, only half-attentive to whatever movie happens to be playing on the screen.

But they don't make love in moments like this, when the brush of skin against skin is gentle, and their eyes flicker with the beginnings of something tender. Their shapes have never melded smoothly; never come together at the insistence of romance, of feelings soft and sweet. The only times they make love are when the dams burst, and they're filled to the brim, bubbling, overflowing with hate. It's a surge of tempers flared, a collision of unyielding bodies. An unspoken ritual, as sacred as it is spiteful.

Boiling blood, caustic words, and they both drown headfirst in an insatiable need to prove, prove, keep proving, to themselves as much as to each other. Demanding touches and trembling thighs form the backdrop of a battle of ideologies and egos under the pretense of stamina, of endurance.

With every insistent roll of his hips, Katsuki pounds a merciless rhythm that chafes Izuku's tight, pulsing heat, until he's keening, seeing stars, glistening saliva spilling from the corners of kiss-swollen lips. In turn, Izuku rakes his nails down Katsuki's broad back, painting welts like crimson ribbons on supple ivory skin, warm blood collecting and then drying in the spaces below the ragged edges of his fingernails. It makes Katsuki shiver and hiss, and he bangs their bodies together so that loud groans rip from both of their throats in unwilling harmony.

They lose themselves in the lewd slap of skin against skin, the squelching of fluids, and ragged, panting breaths. Katsuki's fingers dig into the curve of Izuku's hips. His grip is bent on bruising, on leaving imprints of purple and blue that will mar the pale skin for days. He bites Izuku's overheated flesh – his chest, his shoulders, his neck, with sharp teeth that leave indents where bright red droplets pool. Izuku cries out, but his insides clench with a vengeance around Katsuki's throbbing cock.

They always come undone in synchrony. Their lips spill curses, their bodies spill blood, and more often than not, Izuku's glazed eyes spill fat tears that stream down his flushed cheeks to stain the pillow wet. Heat wells up within them, between them, to the frantic, frenzied beat of the cacophony that they create. It's slick and electric, white-hot and burning like molten lava, and the crescendo engulfs them all of a sudden, equally.

Katsuki would rather watch Izuku lose his mind first, amidst plaintive sobs and high-pitched cries. Izuku would rather send Katsuki hurtling over the edge first, hole constricting hard enough to turn Katsuki's world upside down and inside out as he releases his load with a helpless shout. In their determination to outdo each other, to outlast each other, they instead undo each other. They cum together, chanting childhood nicknames, Izuku on the verge of screaming, Katsuki in guttural groans.

_Ahh, Kacchan, ahh!_ Izuku's voice is almost hysterical as his spine arches impossibly off the bed, body pliant, splayed, and surrendered; Katsuki's to ravish. Katsuki growls Deku's name into his ear, punctuated by rough bites littered liberally across his collarbone and shoulders, as he rams into his puckered hole with renewed fervor.

They tumble down from the high simultaneously, collapsing into a sweating, panting mess of searing skin. Their flaccid cocks are oversensitive, and soft gasps escape both their lips as Katsuki pulls out. They don't speak when they lay next to each other, Katsuki with one arm thrown around Izuku's slim waist as a possessive afterthought, but their stuttering breaths mingle, and the damp locks of their hair brush.

Their anger is spent along with their stamina; sizzling sparks of hatred quieted to smouldering embers that begin to dissipate into ashes. What remains is the proof of its existence – Izuku's thick cum, splattered in pearly beads across their stomachs and heaving chests; Katsuki's hot seed that spills from Izuku's twitching hole to drip down his quivering thighs in cream rivulets.

Still, they feel vexed; each compelled to reduce the moment to a passing truce. There are yet things that need to be proven, a ranking that must be cemented. Katsuki needs to know that he has the power to break Izuku; Izuku that he has the power to take and take, keep on taking everything that Katsuki gives without breaking. They are both stubborn, unyielding in their own ways; at a constant stalemate in a competition to see who is more perfect in his role.

Perhaps one day they'll mellow and learn to accept love without hate. But for now, they feast upon each other's insecurities, unapologetically selfish.


End file.
